


Where I Happen to Be

by spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21955705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_and_ramona/pseuds/spibsy
Summary: Stan learned how to read as soon as he possibly could in order to figure out what his Words said. He has known ever since that his soulmate was going to be... interesting.
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 4
Kudos: 160





	Where I Happen to Be

**Author's Note:**

> This is a [stoziersecretsanta](http://stoziersecretsanta.tumblr.com) gift for [fiascofoxvendingmachine](http://fiascofoxvendingmachine)! I had so much fun writing it! I hope you like it, Casey! 
> 
> Thank you so much to [ta-taboys](http://ta-taboys.tumblr.com) for shadowing this fic! They've been so understanding and supportive throughout this process! :) Please listen to their playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0rUlYSZqQH5RYYiPItOezL?si=kFZpePIuS6mYz6Ofx4tM2A)!

Stanley Uris has always known that his soulmate is going to be a bit of an odd duck.

His parents had forever been cagey about what his Words said. It was one of the reasons that Stan had begun learning to read so early in his life – what could his Words possibly say that his parents wouldn’t want to repeat? His parents loved when he learned other words, so these had to be _bad_ words, but why would his Words have bad words in them?

So he works on his own, silently, until he can read most of the words in the chunk of text scrawled the skin below his knee, contorting himself into cramped positions to try and read upside down. He writes the words as he learns them, the up-and-down lettering he’s becoming very proud of, and he hides the sheets of paper containing his theories in the very back of his closet, shuffled between the pages and pages of bird species he’s recorded from days in the woods.

When he has only one of the Words left, he crafts a plan, to ask his father what it means innocently, separately from any discussion of his Words, in order to keep his private studies a secret.

He strides up to his father in his study, stands straight-backed in front of him, draws all the courage his six-year-old lungs will allow, and asks, “What does piss mean?”

Stan learns very quickly that his father is not so easily fooled, and that his Words will be a point of contention between his parents and him for a long time.

He just can’t figure out why the universe would make his soulmate someone that would use that kind of language. And with someone they just met? It makes no sense. Stan tries his best to smooth his father’s ruffled feathers and pretends for the most part that he doesn’t have any Words at all.

That plan is abruptly ruined for him (perhaps he’s just not good at plans at all) on the first day of third grade. He’s doing his best to read quietly as the other kids run around during recess when someone with far more than the normal amount of elbows plonks down next to him.

Stan ignores them, as has become customary when any of the other children try to speak with him while he’s trying to read.

“Hey,” says the person next to him, and two things happen simultaneously: Stan’s knee begins to burn, and his stomach flutters wildly. “How much money would you pay me to climb that big tree and piss off the top of it?”

Stan has to hold his breath, or he thinks all the air will fly out of his lungs. He lifts his head, heart pounding in a staccato rhythm, blood rushing to his ears. He hardly pays attention to the other boy standing beside the first, who rolls his eyes and gently chucks the first boy on the back of the head.

“Ignore R-R-Richie,” says the second boy, a taller, gangly redhead who Stan thinks might be called Bill. “He’s been asking e-everyone that ever since he figured out what his W-Words say.”

Stan has to make this count, has to make sure what he says back is perfect, has to have a _plan_.

He opens his mouth, and says, “Why would you piss off a tree?” 

It’s the first time he’s ever sworn apart from accidentally. The boy beside him is grinning at him, eyes as big as silver dollars behind the thickest glasses Stanley has ever seen, and something that Stan hadn’t known was off-kilter settles into place in his chest.

“I ‘wood’n’t,” says the boy – says Richie. He nudges Stan with his shoulder, never losing his grin. “I’ll stick to pissing off _people_.”

“Stick,” Stan says. He must be losing his mind, because he’s smiling, and not saying any of the number of things he had thought he would in this situation – he doesn’t ask why you would say that to someone you just met. His cheeks hurt from smiling so wide, actually.

Richie’s own grin grows impossibly bigger. 

“Oh n-no,” says Bill beside them, lowering himself to the ground next to Richie. He’s smiling, too, but it’s a touch more bemused. “I’ll n-never hear the end of it n-now.”

“Oh, deal with it, Billiam,” Richie replies, leaning his chin into his hands, looking at Stan like nobody has ever even almost looked at Stan before. His smile has softened around the edges. “Let me be in love.”

“We just met. We’re not in love.” Stan’s lips are numb. “I don’t even know if I like you.”

“The universe says you have to like me,” Richie says in a squawk. He shuffles closer to Stan, his knee knocking into Stan’s, and when Stan looks down, he sees stark black text on Richie’s opposite knee. He really needs to stop smiling before his lips fall off.

“We’ll see,” he says. He marks the middle of his book with a fingertip, checks the page number, and closes it carefully, setting it beside him and turning more fully to face the other two. “Now,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “Why in the world would you want to piss off the top of a tree?”

\--

Stan’s parents aren’t thrilled by the news of Stan having found his soulmate, but he had known they wouldn’t be. They’d made that clear before they had ever met Richie – he knows someone who uses that kind of language with someone they’ve just met, especially as an eight-year-old.

Richie can be a sweet-talker when he wants to be, though, and when he meets Stan’s parents, he’s on his very best (for Richie) behavior. Even though Stan has seen the way that Richie can charm adults, he’s still in awe of it whenever he sees it. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Uris,” Richie says, standing up straight and offering his hand in the stiffly straight manner of the tinily important. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Clearly taken aback, Stan’s father glances at him before taking Richie’s hand and shaking it twice.

“Yes, well,” he says.

“And you, Mrs. Uris,” says Richie, taking Stan’s mother’s hand and delicately kissing the back of it. Stan nudges the back of Richie’s foot, thinking that’s definitely too much, his parents are never going to fall for that, but his mother smiles prettily, raises her eyebrows at his father who, Stan is alarmed to note, is _smiling_. It’s a small smile, and it seems reluctant, but his father hardly ever smiles at him, let alone at this strange young boy who is the reason his son knew what the word piss meant at the age of five.

Richie, Stan thinks, is too powerful. He could probably take over the world. Stan shudders to think.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Stan’s mother asks, giving Stan’s father another sideways look and, she probably thinks subtly, prodding her foot against his.

“Yes, stay,” says Stan’s father, sighing as he gives in. “There is plenty. We would love to learn more about our son’s soulmate.”

“I would love to, Mr. and Mrs. Uris,” Richie says, his eyes big and blameless beneath his lenses. Stan knows that’s an act, but he can see his mother melt, giving Richie another smile.

“Please,” his mother says, standing and brushing down her long skirt. “Call me Andrea.”

“Of course, Andrea,” says Richie. That butter-wouldn’t-melt expression on his face must be hard to maintain. “I’m honored.”

Stan’s father noticeably does not offer the same, standing and silently moving toward his study. Stan lets out a breath he hadn’t noticed that he was holding, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness in them. “That was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” he mutters, beckoning for Richie to follow him.

“Hey, I’m hurt,” says Richie with a playful smile. He touches the back of Stan’s hand with the back of his own, a soft touch, barely a touch at all, really, and Stan tries not to smile himself. “I thought that I was the worst thing to ever happen to you.”

Stan hums, and leaves his door open, already knowing as they move into his room that his mother would never abide by a closed door that has Stan and his soulmate on one side of it and her on the other. “You’re a close second,” he says, folding a leg underneath him and sitting on his bed. Richie sits next to him, limbs akimbo as usual, knock-knees constantly within a hair’s breadth of Stan’s. He feels like he could vibrate out of his skin.

“Psh,” says Richie, giving Stan yet another smile. He’s so generous with his smiles, doesn’t hold them close like unrenewable resources. Every time he smiles at Stan, it feels like the sun breaking on a new day. Maybe it’s because this is still so new, but Stan hopes he never loses that feeling. “I think you’re forgetting that I’m the reason you have the word piss tattooed on you for all of eternity.”

“No, I never forget that,” Stan replies, settling his hands on his thighs because they’re sort of sweaty and he kind of wants to reach over and hold Richie’s hand, but he’s only known Richie for a week now, and what if Richie doesn’t want to hold _his_ hand? He doesn’t even know where Richie’s hands have _been_ for that matter, and maybe Richie’s been digging through garbage or something. Yes, that’s right, maybe Stan really shouldn’t hold Richie’s hand at all _anyway_. And Richie certainly doesn’t want to hold his. And that’s that. 

“So,” says Richie, reaching over and taking Stan’s hand, holding it between them on the bed as though that’s something that people do, something that they do. “What do you like to do when you’re not reading on the playground?”

Stan smiles, tucks it down towards his chest, and starts to tell Richie about all the different kinds of wrens that live in the woods behind his house.

\--

It’s not that Stan doesn’t know where he stands with Richie. It’s just that Stan doesn’t know where he stands with anyone about anything, but especially with Richie, who takes delight in being as confusing and imperceptible as humanly possible while making people think he’s an open book. It’s frustrating.

They’ve been soulmates for years now (well, they’ve been soulmates forever, but Stan doesn’t count those years before he even knew Richie) and nothing’s changed much. Granted, Stan wasn’t expecting them to get married at eleven, or whatever, but he was kind of expecting… something. They’re just friends who hold hands.

Certainly most friends don’t hold hands, of course, but they’ve known each other for five years, and all they have ever done is sit in Stan’s room or Richie’s room or Bill or Eddie’s room and hold hands. And get made fun of for holding hands. Which is great. It’s very great. Richie’s great at making fun of people who make fun of him, so every time Eddie says something snarky, Richie says something snarky back, and then he and Eddie just argue for an hour while Stan and Bill do homework, and that’s… great.

It might be because they never hang out alone. And it’s – Stan likes their friends. He likes being friends with their friends. He really does. He just… sometimes thinks about spending time with his soulmate. Alone. Without their other friends there.

Not in any sort of salacious way, even. He just thinks that, perhaps, he might like to spend some time with his soulmate and _just_ his soulmate, and not necessarily have to deal with him and Eddie going at each other like feral cats for hours out of the day. He doesn’t mind quietly spending time with Bill, but Bill isn’t his soulmate. Richie is.

Of course, the second he tries to delicately bring this up to Richie while they’re waiting for the others at lunchtime, Richie takes it in the exact wrong way that Stan was hoping he wouldn’t.

“Are you jealous, Stanley?” Richie coos, letting go of Stan’s hand in order to pinch his cheek. Stan ducks away from him, the corner of his mouth turning down. Richie’s hand pauses, and he drops it back to Stan’s, curling their fingers together again. “Oh, shit, are you?” he asks, squeezing Stan’s hand. “Because I swear it’s all just for fun with Eds, he’s just fun to wind up.”

“Shut up,” Stan grumbles. He stares down at his PB&J. “It’s not that. I don’t think – it’s not that. Never mind.”

“Mm, no,” says Richie, shuffling his chair toward Stan. “Come on. I’ll be cool, promise.”

“You could never.” Stan sniffs. “I just want to hang out. Sometimes. Just the two of us.” He can feel a flush rising on his neck. “Don’t make it weird,” he adds quickly. He can see Bill and Eddie talking animatedly in the lunch line, the holographic edges of Eddie’s Ninja Turtles lunchbox glinting in the harsh fluorescents of the lunchroom.

“Well, d’you want to hang out after school? Just us?” Richie asks. His eyes are wide, determined. “My ma won’t care if you come over. You know you’re the son she wishes she had.”

“Sure, whatever,” says Stan, shoving his sandwich into his mouth to keep Richie from asking anything else. It doesn’t stop Richie from looking at him sideways for the rest of lunch, or from squeezing his hand every thirty seconds, but Stan finds that he doesn’t really mind that part too much.

The day goes by quickly, probably because Stan’s dreading the inevitability of their after-school discussion, and before he knows it, they’re all retrieving their bikes from the rack, kicking up the stands to bike home.

“I swear, Mr. Bitner gets more boring every day,” Eddie complains, lazily pedaling along. It’s a shock to Stan that Eddie’s mom even lets him bike to school, but he supposes she probably thinks the risks of getting into a car crash are higher than the risks of Eddie getting into a bicycle accident. If she had her way, Eddie would probably make his way to school every day encompassed by bubble wrap, though she would then become concerned that he would suffocate.

Stan really doesn’t like Eddie’s mom. She likes him, he thinks, because he’s neat and clean, and because she hates Richie so much that any of Eddie’s other friends seem outstanding by comparison. For some reason, Richie’s uncanny ability to charm adults doesn’t really work on Eddie’s mother.

“Does he? I couldn’t tell. I fell asleep like two minutes after he started talking,” says Richie, sliding carelessly between Bill and Stan on his bike. 

Bill is the first to drop off, giving the others a wave over his shoulder as Georgie runs from the house to greet him. “W-Watch out, I’ll run you o-over,” Bill teases. They all know he’d rather die than hurt Georgie, and Georgie knows it, too, planting his feet in front of the garage and waiting with arms open for Bill to scoop him up.

Eddie’s next, and Stan’s always been interested in the way Eddie’s air changes the closer he gets to his mother. His shoulders stiffen, his jaw sets, and his pace slows as though he’s worried his mother is going to barrel out of the house, shouting at him not to pedal too fast. Stan wouldn’t put it past her.

“See you guys tomorrow,” Eddie offers, giving them both a smile. There’s no tension at all, and that’s saying something, because Stan is a person who often imagines that there is tension when there is none and winds up creating the tense situations that he’s trying to avoid in the first place.

“See you,” says Richie. Stan smiles and nods at Eddie, and Eddie swings off his bike to walk it slowly up his driveway.

They pedal silently for a minute or too, though Stan can tell that Richie is burning with the desire to say something. Richie does that, though. Richie oftentimes wants to say _something_ , though he equally as often doesn’t actually know anything to say.

“What is it, then?” Richie finally asks. Stan breathes a sigh of relief at the broken silence. “You said you aren’t jealous. And I kinda believe you, ‘cause you’re Stan and you don’t lie, basically ever. So if it isn’t because you’re jealous, then what is it?”

“I don’t know,” says Stan. He’s not lying, not really. He doesn’t like situations like this. He likes being able to plan out exactly what he wants to say. He doesn’t like thinking on the fly. Richie is so much better at that, so quick and confident in everything he says even when everything that he’s saying is complete and utter nonsense.

“Fuck you, you do know,” Richie shoots back. “You’re the one who brought it up.”

“I know,” says Stan. He’s wishing he hadn’t more and more every second. There’s no way this is better than the prospect of hanging out with his friends. He shouldn’t have said anything. This is torture.

“So, you can’t just bring something up and then say you don’t want to talk about it, Stanley,” says Richie. He stands on his pedals to cycle a slow circle around Stan. “We’re not married yet.”

“We’re twelve,” Stan points out. “We aren’t going to be married for a long time.”

“We’re gonna elope when we’re eighteen and get married in Canada,” Richie insists.

“My parents would murder me,” Stan replies, but he’s less tense now, which is probably what Richie had been going for in the first place. Damn it. Richie likes to play the part of a clueless know-nothing, but he’s very good at breaking down peoples’ defenses.

“You’re smiling,” Richie points out, gentle, like he’s afraid that saying so will make Stan stop.

“Yeah, well,” says Stan. “I can’t stay mad at you. I’m not even mad at you!”

“You sound kinda mad at me.”

“I’m not!” Stan insists. “I just want us to spend time together. Like. Soulmate time. I love our friends, but I sometimes just want to hang out… just with you.”

“Oh.” Richie sounds thoughtful, but not annoyed, which is all Stan has to go on because he absolutely refuses to look at Richie. For multiple reasons. For one thing, it’s horrible bike-riding safety protocol. For another, if he has to look at Richie right now, he’ll die. 

They pedal on. Stan hadn’t thought that Richie’s house was this far from Eddie’s, but he can see it down the street now. He wonders if they’ll continue not speaking to each other for the rest of the day. He hopes not, but neither does he want to talk about what they’d been talking about.

Richie doesn’t say anything as they pull into his driveway, as they park their bikes by the garage (park may be a strong word for what Richie does with his bike), as they enter the back door.

“Mom, Stan’s staying for dinner!” Richie shrieks into the living room. He doesn’t wait for a response before tromping up the stairs.

“Hi, Mrs. Tozier!” Stan calls because he isn’t devoid of manners.

“Hi, Stan!” Richie’s mom calls back from where she’s sitting on the sofa with a paperback. “Dinner’s on the table by six!”

“Thank you!” he replies, though he barely gets through it before Richie is grumbling and grabbing his arm to pull him up the stairs.

“I think you like my mom more than you like me,” Richie mutters. Though he doesn’t let go of Stan’s arm, his grip softens until it’s more of a tug than a yank.

“That is not true,” says Stan, slowing just enough that he can catch Richie’s hand when it slips from his arm. He sees Richie turn away to hide a smile. He’s not sure what that means. Hopefully that Richie’s not upset with him.

Richie has no qualms about shutting his door behind them. His parents don’t really care what they get up to behind closed doors – not that they actually get up to anything. Maybe that’s why Richie’s parents don’t say anything. Stan doesn’t really look or act like the kind of boy to be stealing kisses in his boyfriend’s bedroom.

“I’m sorry,” says Richie abruptly. He shoves a pile of clothes off his bed and sits on it. “I feel like an asshole.”

“You’re not an asshole,” says Stan with a sigh. He eyes the bed beside Richie, and delicately maneuvers the clothing in that spot to the side so that he can sit on the edge of the bed. “We’re both assholes.”

“How kind of you,” says Richie. He gently elbows Stan, then leaves his arm there, shoulders pressed together. It feels in that moment like the most tenderness that Stan will ever experience.

“I – I like you a lot.” It’s stilted, but Stan’s still _saying_ it, and that’s what counts, right? “I like our friends a lot, too, but… not the same way. Sometimes I want it to be just us. Is that okay?”

His heart is pounding in his ears.

Richie gives him a sideways smile, and there’s something on his face that Stan has never seen before: pinkness. There’s a flush on Richie’s cheekbones like he’s embarrassed. He reaches over and grasps Stan’s hand with his own, and then, with the slightest of hesitations, leans over and kisses his cheek.

Now Stan’s face feels hot, too.

“Yeah,” says Richie. It’s quiet like Richie never is, spoken softly for just the two of them. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

They hold hands for the next ten minutes, silently, smiling stupidly to themselves, until Richie jabs Stan in the ribs with his elbow again and they devolve into wrestling so vigorously that they both fall off Richie’s bed. Neither can look Richie’s mom in the eye when she comes up to ask what the loud thump was.

She doesn’t let them stay in Richie’s room with the door closed after that.


End file.
